Riding in Dad's truck, I tolerate rock and roll music and a conversation about politics. Annoying and comforting, those things. Because I affectionately associate them with him.

“Well, you need to understand these things if you’re going to be doing business in the future,” he makes a final point.

“Yeah, but you don’t understand….” I counter his argument; an oldest daughter kind of thing to do.

We take a left into the parking lot for the fields. He parks far away so his truck won’t get hit by home run balls. I throw the door open, descending from the truck what feels like a thousand feet. A sprinkle falls from the sky, so I grab my umbrella and hope it doesn’t get too bad.

I plant my chair on the first-base side, near the dugout, leaving room for my grandparent’s chairs. Looking around, I see people from Dad’s team filing into the dugout with their gear and coolers. Idly, I wonder about Kyle McGraw, the boy I saw at a bonfire only a few days ago.

Do you know Kyle McGraw? He’s a really good kid. Dad had said to me out of the blue, a month ago, from the living room couch. Truth is, I did know Kyle, but barely. And we didn’t talk much at the bonfire the other night anyhow.

“Hi Darienne.” I look up from my phone and see my grandma, setting down her chair next to mine. “How are you sweetie?” I give her a hug and let her know I’m doing fine.

“Hi Papa,” I turn to Papa Mike, giving him a hug too. He leans in, so he can whisper in my ear. I already know what he’s going to say.

“Did I tell you I loved you today?” He whispers. I giggle and nod my head ‘no.’ “I love you today,” he tells me. We’ve greeted each other like this since I was a little girl.

We make small talk as we wait for the rest of the players to arrive. I check my social media to pass the time, and a collection of voices catches my attention. Looking up, a few familiar figures make the long walk from the parking lot. It is Kyle McGraw, Brady Zambanini, and Zach Jordan. All three of the boys were at the bonfire. My heart races a little. I shift in my seat, sitting up straighter.

They walk into the dugout wearing everyday clothes, walking out in their baseball uniforms a few minutes later. In order to get to right field for warmups, they have to pass by our chairs. Kyle’s all-white baseball pants have significant dirt stains…reminding me that Dad also said he was a great athlete. He slows down as he nears my chair and stops. I smile, nervously.

“Hey, how are you?” He asks me with his own heart-stopping smile.

“Hey! I’m good, how are you?”

“Not bad, just tired! We just got back from Geneva this morning and barely made it on time,” he says. That would account for showing up undressed. I think to myself.

“Oh gotcha, I used to live there last summer! I worked for my uncle at his restaurant.” The words sound stupid coming out of my mouth; I can feel my face flush.

“That’s awesome! It’s a nice area,” he comments.

“Yeah, so are you going to hit a home run today?” I make my best effort to flirt.

“I guess we’ll see.” He flashes that smile again before heading to right field. My mind replays our conversation multiple times before he makes it over there. Grandma Lou gives me a look with raised eyebrows. I know what she’s thinking because I’m thinking it too.

The game begins, and it isn’t long before Kyle hits an inside the park home run. Well, Dad was right. I think to myself as he swiftly rounds third base. Dad follows his lead by knocking one out of the park a few batters later.

What was a slight drizzle, becomes a downpour. I shift around in the folding chair to stay dry underneath its hood. The chair does not offer much respite. With soaking wet pants and frizzy hair, my mood dampens.

“Well, who are you trying to impress anyway?” Grandma Lou asks.

“Actually, that guy who came to talk to me at the beginning of the game,” I admit with a laugh.

The game ends, and I rush to the truck to wait for Dad. In the passenger seat, I stare at the raindrops on the windshield.

Will anything become of that small conversation?

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